


It was not Death

by Tinevisce



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinevisce/pseuds/Tinevisce
Summary: In Kartik’s mind, he always pictures himself rising like a glorious being, phoenix-like, from the bloodied and battered husk his father had left him that night. There is a long, beautiful rainbow cape tied to his shoulders. It’s spotless, untainted, unbloodied- and he has never taken it off since.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 34





	It was not Death

**Author's Note:**

> I swear by God, why is it every time I try to get my creative juices about this fandom flowing, I have to start with the angst? There's a bunch of ideas in my head for silly, fluffy, *nice* stories involving our boys: but oh no, I had to write about Kartik's trauma. Gah.
> 
> Let me make it clear for those who may be worried, this story doesn't involve anything bad or violent happening to Kartik *in the present*; it only explores a tiny facet of the subtext the film didn't dwell on vis-a-vis Kartik's abusive father.
> 
> Technically from the same universe as my VIBGYOR series, but I'd say this is pre-VIBGYOR in terms of timelines, and you don't have to read anything from VIBGYOR to understand this one.

**IT WAS NOT DEATH**

_It was not Death, for I stood up,_

_And all the Dead, lie down—_

_It was not Night, for all the Bells_

_Put out their Tongues, for Noon_.

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

Kartik is no stranger to fucking. He has fucked, has been fucked- and on one memorable occasion- has fucked while being fucked. For all his flamboyant flailing, he can be imminently practical too: and as a twenty-something young adult almost a decade ago, he had figured since facing flak for liking men was a sunk cost _anyway_ , he may as well leverage the- shall we say- equity and at least enjoy the fruit. Apples, oranges, the whole thrice-damned hothouse.

It isn’t until a few months into his relationship with Aman, though, that Kartik realises exactly how _fucked_ he is.

He’s been touched before; there’s no square-inch of his body that hasn’t been bared to foreign hands; but Aman touching him is-

It undoes him, completely. Feels like he’s been split open by a surgeon’s scalpel, so his innards lie exposed.

As Aman’s fingers ghost over his tattoos, over his biceps, his chest, then his belly; a tsunami of emotion crashes over him.

Is that lust? Desire? _Terror_?

It’s shame, Kartik decides. He’s ashamed because surely he isn’t worthy of the awe and wonder he can feel bleeding from Aman’s fingers, burning his skin into goose-pimples. Aman is touching him like the reality of Kartik’s flesh shouldn’t exist. Like Aman has wished and yearned and _burned_ for it to be real for so long, and finally, when he had given up all hope, it is.

Like- Kartik gulps down something that feels pretty close to a sob- like Aman has just seen the God he has spent untold lives and aeons praying to for just one glance.

He suddenly wants to cover his nakedness, but he’s paralysed and locked in place with the weight of Aman’s attention on him. All he can do is shut his eyes because he has more sense than to see Aman see him. It’ll probably destroy him completely, dissolve him back into the stuff Aman seems to have conjured him out of.

* * *

In Kartik’s mind, he always pictures himself rising like a glorious being, phoenix-like, from the bloodied and battered husk his father had left him that night. There is a long, beautiful rainbow cape tied to his shoulders. It’s spotless, untainted, unbloodied- and he has never taken it off since.

When he had invited Aman to undress him, he hadn’t actually invited him to strip off the cape too. He had given nobody that right, not even himself.

Then again, nobody else had ever even seen his cape, had they? Nobody else but Aman had eyes that could peel back all his layers, see things it shouldn’t be possible for anyone to see. Kartik decides that maybe it’s like one of those secret messages which you’re considered to have the right to read if you’re able to decode it.

So when Aman coaxes him onto his belly and unties the rainbow-cape from his shoulders with gentle fingers, Kartik doesn’t make a sound in protest.

It’s only when Aman begins to trace the scars on his lower back that a sound- something between a gasp and a sob- escapes.

Stripped of his cape, the Kartik in his mind is walking back towards the bloody, misshapen shell it had arisen from. Aman’s touch is guiding him back to that lattice of pain and torment because-

Because Kartik had never actually forgotten, had he? He’s always remembered how that first blow on his back had just felt like a painless impact, and how it had taken the ferocious agony a few moments to explode. He remembers each blow as they rained down, remembers the exact one which had split his skin open…remembers the exact way in which the blunt-force injuries hurt differently than the sharper, open, bleeding wounds; how the different tenors of pain wove together to form an inescapable net.

The last blow had been to the back of his head. He remembers that it had somehow also felt like a shard of glass stabbing his temples.

“ _Nahi hona chahiye tha tere saath_ ,” Aman’s voice is wet with the tears Kartik is unable to shed because they have long since been burned away.

He mumbles something about nobody deserving what happened to him, only to have Aman say, “ _Tere saath nahi hona chahiye tha_ ”

He’s had lovers before who had been outraged and horrified on his behalf, because, as he’s said a lot of times to a lot of people, nobody deserves to go through what he did.

Aman is the only one who doesn’t give a flying fuck about the rest of the world; will not flinch from visiting violence on untold droves of men, women and even children if it means Kartik will remain untouched.

It’s the blackest blasphemy, and he shouldn’t be indulging the thought for even a moment.

Tomorrow he will atone by putting on his trusty rainbow-cape; it’s currently neatly folded away wherever Aman has decided to stow it. Tomorrow, he will put on his cape and march back into creating a world where nobody will go through what he has.

Tonight though, he is bloodied and battered with wounds he had somehow tricked himself into forgetting about for more than a decade. He’ll take just this one night to feel special, better than everyone else on the planet. Tonight, even if the rest of the world happens to deserve being ravaged by blows until bones crunch and the blood flows: he will not.

Just for tonight, _he_ won't deserve it. Tonight, he will be _Aman's_ Kartik.


End file.
